


Right Before My Eyes

by sherlockian4evr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eating Disorders, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Past Drug Use, Self-Harm, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: John has known Sherlock for several months. He's learned a lot about him, but there is one thing he hasn't learned and it's right there in front of him to see. When he does finally notice, he wonders how he could have been so blind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madeleinefs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeleinefs/gifts).



John had lived with Sherlock for over six months. During that time, they had had several mad adventures and almost died twice. It had been blood curdling and amazing fun. The doctor felt truly alive for the first time since returning from Afghanistan. Even more amazing was how close he felt to his new friend in such a short amount of time. Sherlock had swooped into his life and changed it for the better.

Recently, however, Sherlock had changed. He had grown quiet and the days on end of silence Sherlock had promised at their first meeting had materialised like a spectre in the night. John couldn’t put his finger on what had triggered the change in the detective. It had seemed to come out of the blue.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to pull himself out of his black mood. He returned to taking cases and, to all appearances, everything was fine.

John was soon to find appearances could be deceiving.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa in his thinking prima donna pose, his hands folded together in a prayerful position. His current case involved the disappearance of two men from a gay club. There was no apparent connection between the two of them beyond the fact of their patronage of that particular club and the fact they were gay. They even looked very different. One was rather short, slight, had ginger hair and green eyes. The other was tall, clearly worked out, was blond and his eyes were blue. Obviously they weren’t chosen because they were of a type.

The moment John returned from the clinic, Sherlock bounded up off the sofa. “Good. You’re home. Get a shower and put on the clothes I placed on your bed.” He started pacing the living room restlessly.

“Alright,” John agreed, though he was tired and wanted nothing more than to veg in front of the telly. “Um, Sherlock, what about you?

“What about me?”

“You can’t exactly go out on a case in nothing more than your pyjamas and your dressing gown.”

Sherlock looked down at himself, seemingly surprised by his attire. He wheeled about and disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

With a sigh, John climbed the stairs to his own room to see what Sherlock had provided for him to wear. It turned out not to be too horrible. The jeans he found were skin tight and made his arse look... well... yeah. The black T-shirt made his well muscled arms stand out as well. When combined with the heavy boots his friend had left for him, he thought he could probably pull with a lot less effort than it normally took. He was definitely keeping the clothes.

He made his way back downstairs, curious what Sherlock would be wearing. What he saw made his cock leap to full attention, at least at first.

The detective wore leather trousers that might as well have been painted on. There definitely wasn’t room for pants beneath them. The shirt he wore... Ha! The shirt he wore was black fishnet with strategic ‘tears' in the so called fabric. He even thought he detected a bit of eyeliner and pink lip-gloss.

Even as he gaped, well, lusted, however, his doctor’s eye took over. Sherlock’s bones were far too prominent. His hip bones were visible as were his ribs and collarbone. His friend's thinness would appeal to many people, but it worried the doctor. How had he missed this?

“You're staring, John,” Sherlock accused.

“Hm, oh. I was deducing our destination for tonight. It has to be that gay club where the murders occurred,” John deflected.

Sherlock gave him his brightest grin. “Very good, John. We’ll make a detective of you yet. Now come. The game is on.” With that, he swooped out the door, trusting John to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

At the club, John didn’t feel as out of place as he could have. Of course, that was all down to the clothes Sherlock had picked out for him. They hadn’t been there ten minutes and he had already drawn the eye of more than one gorgeous young man, most of them twinks. A few older men had given him appreciative looks as well. All in all, it did quite a lot for the ego.

Hanging back at the bar, the doctor let his gaze travel over the expanse of the club, keeping an eye on Sherlock whilst trying to appear not to. It was a difficult task. He had ordered a beer and was nursing it as he watched the bodies writhing on the dance floor.

It would have helped, of course, if Sherlock had bothered to tell him what to look for. As it was, all he could do was look for someone acting suspicious.

An older man walked over and leant against the bar. He had blond hair and a light, neatly trimmed beard. He started to order, but looked out over the dance floor, his gaze falling immediately on Sherlock. “Look at the bum cleavage on that one,” he said as he appreciated the way the detective's tight trousers left nothing to the imagination.

John instantly hated the man. Unbeknownst to him, his left hand clenched into a fist. It was all he could do not to turn and say something challenging. Instead, he watched Sherlock dance. Which meant he had to watch several men jostling for their turn with him.

Abruptly, the other man pushed away from the bar and launched himself towards the dance floor. He waded into the crowd and made his way behind Sherlock. Soon, he was dancing with him, his hips moving in time to the music.

John saw it the moment it happened. The blond stranger, placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and ground into him. His head bent and he spoke into the detective's ear. A look of panic crept onto the detective’s face, something John had never expected to see there. 

Sherlock’s dancing faltered for a moment at the uninvited touch and the feel of the hard erection against his arse. He didn’t even hear the man's words because he was so distracted. After a moment, he forced his body to resume its movements, even as he struggled against the loss of control that he felt. He wanted to flee the dance floor, flee the club, but he felt trapped. The moment John stepped up to him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Come on, Alan. I think that’s enough. I’ve let you enjoy yourself, but it’s time we go home.” The ex army doctor instilled his voice and mannerisms with every bit of Captain Watson that he could muster and glared the other blond down. It was forceful enough that the man stepped away from Sherlock when John grasped the detective by arm and lead him away.

It worried the doctor, how Sherlock let himself be led first from the dance floor then from the club. John fretted at his friend's silence. He eventually managed to wave down a taxi and got Sherlock into the cab.

For the entirety of the ride back to Baker Street, the detective looked out the window. He felt unsettled and at a loss. The feelings that had been aroused when the man had touched him harkened back to a time he had tried his hardest to delete, a time when he had been completely out of control. He hated both the reminder and the feeling. He shifted slightly in his seat feeling the old need to master his transport. Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him. He needed to get back home and away from his friend and his inevitable questions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self-harm.

Sherlock didn’t pause in the living room even when John called out his name. Instead, he went directly to his bedroom, calling out, “Thinking,” just before he closed and locked the door.

Inside, the detective paced the floor, feeling like he was about to fly apart. He could still feel the man's hands on him from the dance floor and the man's cock pressed against his arse. He knew what the man had wanted – to take him somewhere, to take over, to take control and fuck him. Just like they had, back...

“Sherlock!” John called, knocking on the door. “Are you okay?” He couldn’t forget the look he’d seen on his flatmate's face back at the club.

“I told you. Thinking. Go away.”

“Fine. I’m getting Chinese. I expect you to eat later.” John didn’t hold out much hope that his friend would eat, but he felt he had to try.

Sherlock growled. “I’m on a case!” Even John tried to control him, though in a much more benign fashion. His friend thought he was helping, but his well intentioned suggestions made the detective’s skin itch.

At least he hadn’t heard from Mycroft in a while. Just the thought of his brother’s name was enough to push him over the edge. The next thing Sherlock knew, he had locked himself in the bathroom and stripped of his tight fitting trousers. In his hand, he held a razor blade.

The detective’s hand was steady and he felt an odd sense of anticipation. What he was about to do was of his on volition, no one else's. He made the first cut, two inches long, on his thigh. It was just deep enough to allow a satisfying amount of blood to well up. He made another cut just below the first, then a third. The cuts stung after a moment and he just stared at them. There was no regret for his actions, that would come later. For now, there was a deep satisfaction and a sense of control.

Sherlock finally cleaned the cuts with antiseptic and used gauze to apply pressure until the bleeding had almost stopped. He taped more gauze in place to prevent any further bleeding from showing through the clothes he was about to put on. As an afterthought, washed his face quickly to remove the eyeliner. Finally, he gathered the evidence and returned to his bedroom through the door that connected the two rooms. He hid the razor blade and the bloodied gauze for disposal until he could safely dispose of them without John finding out.

The detective dressed in his favourite suit, the trousers of which were a bit snug. He pressed on the fresh cuts through said trousers, letting the pain keep him from panicking at how fat he had let himself become. It was his own fault for giving in to John so often regarding food. He would simply have to stop.

When he had regained his composure. Sherlock exited his bedroom and took up residence in his chair, hands folded beneath his chin in his thinking pose. That was how John found him when he returned with dinner.

“So, now you’re thinking out here.” The doctor set the food on the coffee table and got out one of the boxes along with a pair of chopsticks. “I got your favourite,” he said, offering the box and chopsticks to his friend.”

“I told you, I’m on a case.”

“And your brain needs fuel.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring John. He wasn’t going to be bullied into eating. His transport was his. It belonged to him and no one else. He'd fought hard to reclaim his control over it. He wasn’t about to let it slip away, no matter how well-meaning the doctor was.

“Sherlock, just eat a bit,” John cajoled to no effect. He finally surrendered and sat down, frustrated. Eating what he had got for the detective, he thought about what had happened at the club.

Sherlock had put himself out there as bait. Had he not expected someone to take such interest in him? Had he not expected the killer to do so? Surely that had been the point. Why had Sherlock reacted the way he had? Maybe John had done the wrong thing in removing his friend from the club, but he couldn’t stand seeing that look on his face one moment longer. Remembering it, he found he wasn’t all that hungry himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many resources available for those who self harm. [Self-injury Outreach and Support](http://sioutreach.org) is just one of them. If it's something you're struggling with, I encourage you to seek help.


	4. Chapter 4

There were so many questions that John wanted to ask Sherlock about the incident at the club, but he could tell from Sherlock’s mood that he wouldn’t get answers, just waspish abuse so he let it go.

Finally unable to stand the charged silence in the room anymore, John went up to his room and went to bed. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking, though. What had happened had obviously been a reaction to a trigger. It didn’t take much of a leap to figure out that it had to do with sex or rather sexual assault. The thought of something like that having happened to Sherlock made John furious. He wanted nothing more than to hunt down the bastard who had hurt his friend and make him pay.

It was hours before John finally fell asleep, then it was restless and dream filled.

* * *

Downstairs, Sherlock sat in his chair in the living room. He was glad that John had finally taken himself and his unasked questions to bed. He knew it wouldn’t be long before John reached his own conclusions about how he had reacted at the club to the dancer's crude advances. John would be wrong in what he arrived at, of course. He would think of the most obvious, mundane cause that would account for such a reaction.

Pressing his fingers into the area where he had cut himself before, Sherlock used the pain to ground himself. John was sure to start acting overprotective and pitying around him. He loathed even the idea of that. However, the only alternative meant telling John the truth and he couldn’t do that. John would lose all respect for him if he knew the worst. It was a no win scenario. Sherlock pressed harder until he let out a gasp of pain, his mind clearing briefly and his rising sense of panic falling away.

Sherlock didn’t want to think about the past. It didn’t matter anyway. He was above it all. It was only transport and he was the master of his transport. He had proven that to himself once again earlier in the evening. He needed to think about the case.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his knees. The cuts on his thigh ached just enough for him to be aware of them, but not enough to keep him from thinking about the case.

Obviously, they’d have to go back to the club, but this time he would be mentally prepared for what might happen on the dance floor. He would also have to admonish John against interfering with any advances that might be made, no matter how uncomfortable he thought Sherlock looked. Letting the killer get close to him was the only way they would be able to draw him out.

Sherlock exhaled in frustration. For all they knew, the man that had approached him tonight had been their killer. He closed his eyes and tried to pull up an image of the man to no avail. He shouldn’t have frozen like he had. He should have been alert and observant.

Standing up, he fetched his violin and prepared it lovingly, then began to play. As mournful music filled the air, he wandered to the window and looked out over the dark street and watched the occasional passer-by. Eventually, his eyes drifted shut and images from the past played themselves out inside his mind: things he had done in desperation, things he longed to delete but couldn’t, things that were linked to desires he still battled.

Sherlock dropped the violin to his side as his eyes shot open. He didn’t need to be thinking of those things. It served no purpose. Sherlock resisted the urge to throw his violin and set it down gently along with the bow instead.

The rest of the night was spent pacing the living room, his thoughts returning to John and whether he should tell him the truth or let him believe the erroneous conclusions he had no doubt reached. When dawn arrived, he still hadn’t made up his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling with a string of migraines. I don't know that they're over yet, but I'm going to try to press on. Not being able to write has been very depressing and I am going to grab the chance to do so while there doesn't seem to be a storm brewing in my head.

In the early hours of the morning, Sherlock shoved all thought about John and the issue at hand to the back of his mind, stood and crossed to the kitchen. He pulled his latest experiment out of the bottom drawer. There were six toes, six big toes, impaled in miniature stakes standing in a pan. He set the pan on the table, then sat down to work on his experiment.

Sherlock stayed engrossed in his work until the first morning light filtered through the living room windows. He looked up as he realised the time and stretched. Sherlock knew he must look a sight after the way he had worried at his hair the night before. It wouldn’t do to let John catch him looking such a state.

Standing, Sherlock cleared his experiment away, then he walked the short distance to the bathroom where he quickly prepared for the. He moved through his morning ablutions almost automatically, only pausing to run his fingers over the cuts on his thigh, supposedly to check for infection. In reality, it was to remind himself that he was in control, not John and most certainly not anyone else.

Moving into his bedroom, Sherlock quickly dressed in trousers and his white form-fitting shirt. He slipped a jacket over it, completing his armour. He slipped back into the living room and turned him mind back to the case, feeling settled enough to do so at last.

A couple of hours later, John wandered downstairs and into the living room. Seeing Sherlock dressed and working the case already, he frowned. Sherlock couldn’t have slept, but then again that was hardly surprising. “Tea?” At Sherlock’s hum of an answer, John continued to the kitchen and put the kettle on then went about making toast. He figured he could at least coax that into Sherlock despite the fact Sherlock was working.

When the light breakfast was ready, he set Sherlock’s tea and toast on the coffee table. “Don't trample on your breakfast this time,” John admonished him. It had happened more than once when Sherlock had been too tied up in his thoughts or buried too deep in his mind palace to notice John placing toast and tea on the table.

Taking a seat in his chair, John settled in with his own breakfast. He wanted to bring up what had happened last night, but knew he daren't. It wouldn’t be welcomed even a tiny bit. He didn’t realise he was staring at Sherlock until Sherlock said something. 

“Don't be an idiot, John. It wasn’t what you think,” Sherlock said as he moved a photo to a different location on the wall. “I’m sure you have speculated about my past sexual experience, or lack thereof, before now. I leave you to make your own deductions.” Sherlock hadn’t truly lied with what he just said. He had merely made very unrelated statements. If John drew the wrong, but desired conclusions, it wouldn’t be Sherlock’s fault. Anything would be better than John knowing the truth about Sherlock’s drug days and the depths to which he had sunk. That was unthinkable.

Abruptly Sherlock spun around where he was standing on the sofa and dropped to sitting. “We have to make plans for when we go back tonight.” He picked up his tea and sipped it, completely ignoring the toast. He was on a case, he knew John wouldn’t raise much of a fuss if he didn’t eat it. At least he didn’t have to fight that battle.

John was still trying to catch up. He supposed Sherlock’s inexperience could have caused the reaction he had witnessed the night before, but something about that idea didn’t sit right with him. “I don’t like the idea of going back there. Whether or not that was our man, I don’t like the way he was...”

“Touching me? Keep that up, John, and people will talk. They might think you’re jealous,” Sherlock quipped.

John scowled down at his tea before taking a large gulp. People would be correct.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that night, John got dressed in his club wear. He was full of trepidation about the evening ahead. It didn't decrease one whit when he went downstairs and found Sherlock dressed for the club.

The detective was wearing jeans that looked as if they were sewn onto him. His shirt was a cut off t-shirt that displayed his midriff nicely. John wanted to put an arm around him and place his hand on that tantalising strip of flesh. The problem was, he was sure every man at the club would want to do the same thing.

“No. This is not happening,” John said, his tone firm. “Not without more information.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock fell onto the sofa and stretched out. “As always, you see, but you do not observe.”

It was the doctor's turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not a complete idiot. I know this has something to do with the recent murders. That much is obvious. Three men found dead after attending gay bars, then you drag me to one... So far, so simple. But are we looking for clues or for the killer? Do you know who did it and how?”

“The killer, yes and yes.” Sherlock got back to his feet and went out the door leaving the doctor to follow or not as he chose.

John swore, then chased after him. “Who?!” He called out as he jogged down the stairs.

The detective didn't deign to answer until they were in a cab and on their way. “The man from last night. Brett Howe.”

“The handsy arse, you mean.” John was flushed red with anger. “And he just happened to choose you of all the people there last night.”

“I know what he looks for, John.” He gestured towards himself, indicating how he was dressed. “I know how to act to draw him in.”

“Bloody hell.” The doctor scrubbed his face. He should have known. It was so very typical of his friend. “I won't allow it, Sherlock. Call Greg. Tell him where to find this Brett Howe. Let him deal with him.”

Sherlock, out of habit, ran a hand over his thigh, but he resisted pressing on his wounds. John would notice that. “You can't tell me what to do.”

“Of course not. No one can tell you bloody anything because you're the great Sherlock Holmes!” John turned away, looking out the cab window. He was furious and worried because he knew there was nothing he could do to stop his friend from throwing himself in harm's way. “Fuck.” There was nothing for it but to try to keep Sherlock from getting himself killed. “Did you have a plan, then?”

“We were scouting the club last night. Now that we know he frequents it, of course, I have a plan.” He looked out the window of the cab, waiting for John to ask for details.

Rolling his eyes, the doctor, with some irritation at Sherlock's theatrics, indulged his friend. “Do you mind sharing with me?” he asked, more than a hint of annoyance in his voice.

With a small smile on his face, the detective turned back to look at John. “It’s simple really. I will lure him out back of the club, careful not to let him administer ketamine through drink, I am not an idiot after all, and precisely three minutes later you will follow, giving him enough time to implicate himself, then we take him down. Simple.”

“Right,” John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the detective said defensively.

“Nothing ever works out the way you plan. Something always goes wrong.” John was busy imagining the many ways this particular plan could go wrong and he didn't like any of them. “Have you considered that you’re putting your life on the line?”

“That’s what we do, John. It's the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the chase. Now do stop whinging and get your mind on what's ahead.” With that, Sherlock returned his gaze to out the window. He was looking forward to the confrontation ahead. He would prove to himself once and for all that his past had no hold over him. His grim smile was reflected back at him in the cab window.

Knowing there was nothing that could change his friend's mind, John resigned himself to following the plan. He would just have to be certain that nothing did go wrong. He only wished he had his SIG tucked away in the band of his jeans, not that there was any room for it.

Far too soon, they arrived at the club. Sherlock got out of the cab, leaving John to pay as usual. It rankled more than usual because he lost sight of him for a few moments. That didn't bode well for the evening ahead.

“Do you mind not trying to shake me?” the doctor asked, irritated. “Not if I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you?”

Sherlock shrugged and led them into the club.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Right Before My Eyes"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351281) by [Drawn Lines (sherlockian4evr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/Drawn%20Lines)




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